


wanting less than this

by EmptyHeartedLover



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Light Masochism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 13:10:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16264865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmptyHeartedLover/pseuds/EmptyHeartedLover
Summary: There isn't a lot that Fox wants, but dying to a lunatic with a severe complex and delusions about his low-worth are definitely not on the list of things he wants even if he still desires death. It's a shame Snake will never understand what he really wants.





	wanting less than this

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Yes, I know Fox has a name. I just want to call him Fox because it's cooler.  
> 2) I wrote this because twin snakes killed him and i refuse to believe he's fucking dead to kojima's giant crushing fetish  
> 3) I want to fuck Fox  
> 4) i dont know how to write snake's character. or any of kojima's characters, actually.  
> 5) i just finished twin snakes i don't know anything about metal gear.
> 
> Why are all these numbered? I don't know. But I have finished twin snakes AND metal gear solid 3. Joy is bae.

Surviving Liquid probably isn’t the hardest thing Fox has done, he considers; he likes to think he has gone through worse than that, than trying to be crushed by a man with an insecurity the size of Russia, but nothing in him seems all that willing to – really – recall anything worse than that. His body aches, the slash against his arm a bloom of pain that he finds himself leaning into the wall for, trying to push more onto it and pressure it, his eyes slipping shut briefly to try and revel in it and the pain that bursts from his shot eye.

Yet that isn’t meant to last, it seems; hands grab at his shoulders, rough and desperate, shaking him back and forth until he opens his eyes and looks up at Snake’s ragged, unshaven face, at his grit teeth and wide eyes, and he huffs out. “You can let go of me now, Snake.” He says softly, stopping the brief panic on the other’s face and Snake stiffens up before he pushes himself away.

“I thought you died.” He admits quietly, ever the honest man, and Fox can’t help but give a small smile – missed by Snake, clearly, as he isn’t looking at him, but something that still strains his face with it. “Don’t close your eyes, not until I do some first aid.”

He huffs, but doesn’t say anything, letting his head fall against the wall behind him and his focuses, instead, on the defunct Metal Gear Rex, a sardonic grin settling onto his face and Fox can’t help but laugh. “You are an exceptional man, Snake.” Fox says at the exact same moment that Snake shifts over to him, his hands busying themselves with trying to wrap the bandage around his slash, and his grin immediately fades when he realizes that Snake has nothing to try and ‘numb’ the pain, so it were.

His breathing quickens, though he does his best to try and control it, trying to keep Snake from worrying further over nothing as those rough hands, clumsy with first aid but perfect with a gun, settle onto the deep gash and press down on it. He fumbles a little bit, murmuring to himself, and if Fox strains he can hear Snake dictating what he is doing to himself and he wants to laugh; really, he does. Something about this is so odd, absurd – and all Fox can do is just sit there and try not to show how he really feels; Snake will stop the moment he thinks he is hurting him too much, try to go gentler.

This isn’t a fight right now, after all; this is him being bandaged and taken care of by a man who cares too much for him, who has seen him nearly get crushed to death before he desperately shoots the Striker at Metal Gear Rex’s leg – it is by pure miracle he is still alive, and a miracle he wishes did not happen.

His thoughts are quick to be washed away by a terrible sting that radiates and blooms all around, Snake accidentally pushing his knuckles too harshly against the start of the gash – his hand slips, fingers slip in, and he is fumbling to not hurt him further and Fox’s mouth falls open in a silent moan. He looks at Snake through his eyelashes, takes in the sweat dripping down the sides of his face, the pure and utter concentration he is putting in trying not to hurt him further.

An amazing man kneels before him, looking at him with the kindest look he has given him in years – and even then that isn’t saying much – and all Fox wants for Snake to do is to _hurt_ him. His arm tingles with each press and accidental jab, with the tightness of the bandage, and he closes his eyes and moans softly, he hopes Snake misses both actions, but with the way the other stiffens up and freezes that he can tell that he has failed.

“Fox?” Snake asks quietly, blankly, the gruffness not lost but the confusion clearly there, and Fox’s eyes flutter open to see the usual, unreadable expression on his friend’s face. “What are you doing?” he asks again, so woefully ignorant, and he reaches out with his good hand so that he can cup Snake’s cheek. He isn’t shrugged off, pushed away, and he makes his move.

He kisses him, presses his bloody, cracked lips against Snake’s dry ones, and he tenses up and shudders when his arms are both grabbed out of instinct, fingertips pressing into his wound, and Fox lets himself moan when Snake ends up shoving him back, breaking the kiss, letting go of his arm to reveal his right hand painted red. “Fox-” Snake begins to say, though he is quick to quiet himself at the look on Fox’s face.

Snorting, Fox can only imagine what he looks like and then lets his eyes fall onto Snake’s lips, at the red staining them, pride and satisfaction corrupting the blood pumping in and out of his heart’s arteries and veins, and he breathes heavily. “It’s good, Snake,” Fox murmurs, “it’s _good._ Just like before.”

“When we were fighting?” Snake asks. “You – you like _pain?”_ he asks again, and Fox tries not to shake his head; classic Snake, ever oblivious to everything around him, to himself, and he leans closer. “How could you like pain?” he snaps out. “There is _nothing_ to enjoy to pain. I’m _hurting_ you. How could you enjoy that? I don’t – I don’t get it.”

Of course he doesn’t. There is something – something so humane about that. The very same thing that has kept him from shooting until the panic took over and forces him to try and save Fox. At least it is a better death than to dying to someone with barely any sense left in them.

But Snake is staring at him, waiting for an answer, and so he gives him one. “You don’t have to get it.” Fox murmurs. “Bandage my arm, Snake. I can’t handle seeing the guilt on your face anymore. That isn’t what I want.”

And for the first time, Snake doesn’t ask him what he wants.


End file.
